


Show the Way the World Can Be

by Silikat



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: (well of sorts anyway), (with a happy ending), Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Fix-it fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silikat/pseuds/Silikat
Summary: Orpheus walks the surface world alone, while beneath his feet Eurydice works, and works, and feels nothing. Hades and Persephone sit silent in their mansion, and outside Hadestown rattles to the same beat it always has. But change is coming on the wind, slow and steady, threatening to overtake them all. There is light in the darkness after all, rushing towards them like the headlights of an oncoming train. And soon, all of Hadestown will be singing their melody.





	Show the Way the World Can Be

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for references to alcohol and alcoholism, also depression.

And that is the ending of the tale of Orpheus, and Eurydice.

But no such story truly ends just because the teller stops talking. People’s lives, they run and run, and there’s no such thing as the end, not really. One life bleeds into another, one tale becoming the next, until the world’s stories are all one. The stories of men dart around like fish in the stream; the stories of gods rumble onwards, like an old steam train, and all heading into the unknown.

So let us take up this tale and twist its strands together, and see what fate might have had in store for these lovers, when their tale was done being told.

~

Orpheus wanders the wilderness with lead in his belly and no destination, not really. His hands are empty, his feet staggering on each step. The railroad tracks are at his left, desolation at his right. Above him stretches miles of land, the ground snow-white, ice-hard, the white blending into the overcast sky so he can see no horizon. He is wearing the same clothes he wore when he walked into Hadestown, but now they are threadbare and patchy, covered with holes. He shivers through his thin jacket, folding his arms over his chest as he walks into the wind. It batters his face, chills his body to the core. His eyes stream; his skin feels like ice. Still he walks, step by step.

How long has he been out here, exposed to the elements with nothing but his wits, just his own two legs and his guitar at his back? Not even he knows the answer to that. He hasn’t seen another person in days, and none have seen him. As far as the world is concerned, this poor boy doesn’t exist, not any more. He has abandoned it, just as it abandoned him.

He grits his teeth, takes another step. Even walking is difficult, now. Soon he will stop, give it up as lost. There is a building, blurry in the distance – a little wooden shack, long abandoned and rotting from the inside, but it will provide shelter for the night. Orpheus carries a small bag at his side now, with a few essentials inside. Wood for a fire, bread for his hunger. Enough to last through one more night. Enough to survive another day.

That is all he needs.

Somewhere else, a world underneath the boy’s feet. There is an underworld of heat and noise, and light streaming from the grid above people’s heads. Chimneys stream with thick smoke that blackens the faces of those that work beneath, clanging and hammering and clamouring filling the air. Voices shout and scream at each other, in this world devoid of love.

In the warehouses, three people load boxes onto a truck.

The first is a grey-haired woman, her face etched with age. For her broad back and strong arms, she is known as the Ox, for Hadestown is a place to shrug off your old names. Beside her is a middle-aged man, skin grey and gaunt, called Skip by his fellows. Lagging a pace behind is a young woman, raven hair in tight curls, dark skin glistening with sweat. A pair of round glasses perch on her nose, giving her the nickname Specs. She has not been here long; time has not yet dulled the gleam in her eyes, and she staggers slowly from the warehouse to the vehicle, arms trembling beneath her heavy load.

They talk as they work, in low tones. Skip keeps glancing over his shoulder to the door of the factory, where the foreman stands with his back to them. The Ox shakes her head at him, the gesture slow and small, but he ignores her. Specs doesn’t seem to notice either of them, so focused is she on her task, but they can tell by the way the corner of her mouth arcs up every so often that she is listening.

They are talking about change. The Ox is remarking, with a childlike tone of wonder, how less gangs have been called down to stoke the boilers beneath the city, how the sound of hammering from the Wall has all but ceased. Skip snorts, heaving a crate down into the back of the truck. He says that things are still the same, that for them the work has never stopped. But the Ox looks over at the foreman, a black silhouette against the hazy glow from inside the factory, and clicks her tongue. Usually, they would be punished for talking even this much, she remarks. But they are getting away with it now.

Setting a box down with some relief, Specs asks what has happened to prompt this change. Neither of them answer for a moment. They just trade a look, pregnant with history, before the Ox turns and speaks again. She speaks of a person, a boy. One who spoke to the king of this world, and managed to change his heart.

“Who was he?” The girl’s voice is barely audible over the sounds of industry behind them,

The Ox has to stifle a smile. “Orpheus.” She wipes a hand over her brow as she clarifies. “A poor boy from the world above. He came along the railroad track.”

Next to her, Skip glances up, one eyebrow raised, his voice cutting. “He _came_ to get his girlfriend back.” He is silenced with a look.

“Who was he?” the girl repeats. She is staring outwardly at her companions, not yet moving over to take the next load. Skip takes her by the arm, his touch too rough, leading her back to the factory and the pile of crates that they have yet to shift.

“A singer boy.” The Ox drops the load she is carrying and moves to join them. “He sang a song so full of joy that Gods and men couldn’t help but dance.”

Skip’s eyes are cloudy, his thoughts obviously lost in a haze of recollection. His voice is laced with cynicism when he speaks again. “And Mister Hades gave him a chance.”

Specs nods. The Ox jerks her head towards the pile of crates; guiltily, Specs heaves one into her arms. She doesn’t mean to speak, but the question burns on her lips and she can’t help but blurt it out. “What sort of chance?”

“A chance to go,” comes the Ox’s instant reply. “And take the girl from here below, back to the land that they called home.”

The girl’s smile is weary, but hopeful. “A happy ending?”

“Not quite so,” Skip cuts in. Now that the story is his for the telling, his voice is louder, though still his eyes flicker over to the motionless foreman. “See, Orpheus, he walked alone. Because he failed. He looked back. So Eurydice stays, beneath the tracks.”

The Ox has regret etched into every line of her face. Her voice is rueful. “He came so close. He got so far.”

“He was a fool, and a dreamer,” Skip counters. “Not even he could best a king.”

But the old woman smiles. “I heard him sing.”

Spec’s round eyes are magnified by her glasses, her expression like a child looking into a toy store. “What was it like?

The Ox shares that expression, despite herself. She is remembering that song, remembering that night. Skip sighs, his pace slowing as his eyes close, slowly. Specs stands beside them, looking between them.

When the Ox speaks again, her voice is distant. “Like a long-lost friend,” she says. “Like the whole wide world was right again, and just for a moment it was spring.”

“Yeah,” Skip rumbles, his pace quickening enough that Specs has to run a few steps to catch up. “Then, right back to working.”

“Things have changed. It’s different now.”

Skip’s voice is laced with sarcasm. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Specs stares openly at the Ox. “How?”

She seems to address her words to Skip, her voice cutting across his reticence. “He gave us something you can’t buy. We look each other in the eye. We raise our heads, we stand upright. That alone is worth the fight.”

There is silence, for a moment – silence from human voices, though the sounds of industry still clash on. They move their crates, walking those slow steps, until they reach the truck, dropping their heavy loads into the back of the vehicle.

Then Specs speaks again. “Where is she?”

“Here, somewhere.” The Ox shrugs.

Skip sighs. “Wherever she is, I pity her. It wasn’t her fault, what came to pass between her, the Fates, and Orpheus.”

Not far away from them, a young woman is making her way across Hadestown, from the mines to the factories with a cart full of raw material. Her back is bent, her head is low. She meets nobody’s eye as she drags her load behind her, nor does she look away. Her jaw is set, her eyes darting around her, daring anyone to say something to her.

Eurydice works, and works hard. While the wall no longer rises over Hadestown, neither does it fall, and workers are still sent out to maintain it every day. When she is not there, she shovels coal in the foundries, assembles parts in the factories, carries loads from one place to another. She is another grey spectre, smudged with dust and grime, her short hair hidden beneath a headscarf, her eyes downcast. Her hands are calloused from long days spent toiling. She wraps bandages around them, washed mud-brown. It is the colour of rust; it is the colour of Hadestown.

The only music is the rattling of the conveyer belts, the unending beat of the machinery around her here, in this place where there is no singing. The only human voices she hears are those of the foremen, shouting and screaming when she fails to complete her work, which is often. All of these tasks are new to her, and though she is a quick learner nothing is quick enough for the men with the harsh stares and cold eyes. She wants to curl up and cry, wants to clap her hands over her ears and make the world go away just for a moment, but she doesn't have the luxury of a moment. She is driven from one task to the next with barely time to catch her breath. She shovels, cleans, fits, assembles, hauls, sweeps, mines, until she feels ready to drop.

How strange, that exhaustion and pain are the only things she is allowed to feel here. She has nothing else. Her back aches from being cramped in the mines. Every muscle in her arms burns. Coal dust gets into her eyes, clogs her lungs. And yet no heart hammers in her chest, no breath rasps in her throat, no song falls from her lips. She feels no sorrow, no joy. Even when she thinks of Orpheus there is a sense of emptiness that washes over her, a gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach, but no tears. She knows she ought to be weeping, wailing, beating her hands against the harsh stone and begging that he could come back to her. Instead she works, and feels nothing.

Eurydice has spent her life working. Her earliest memories are of fields and orchards, shaking down fruit from the trees and catching it in baskets. But then, at least, she could curl up on the ground at the end of a long day, and rest her weary head. In the evenings, when the light was too poor to harvest by, she would gather around a campfire with her fellows and sing, or dance, or share stories until exhaustion took them away. Even later, when she travelled from town to town chasing whatever work she could find, her heart was bolstered with the knowledge that soon she would move on, to another place. But here there is no place to go, no rest. She has reached the end of the line. From here, the work stretches on ahead, and she was left behind.

She remembers the day she saw him, sitting across from her with his guitar and his artistically ruffled hair and his cocky smile. How his eyes lit up when he saw her, how he came across to her and started to play, and talk in that overconfident way he had. She had thought he was crazy, or deluded, or desperate. But the more they talked, the harder she fell.

If she had trusted him more, would this have happened? She thinks of him, sitting with that guitar and that notebook, not seeing the storm that blew outside of the window. And she knows it was her fault. She knows. It has to be her fault.

She frequents the speakeasy, in a crawlspace behind the wall. It is just a little room, with plaster walls and a steel floor, a few crates scattered around on which bottles rest. Many are the nights that Eurydice finds herself at the bottom of these bottles, Lethe's tears washing her clean for one glorious moment. Then she is herself again, and must return to work before her absence is spotted.

Eurydice chases that feeling, though – that numbness that is comfortable, when her thoughts and memories and sense of self have been swept away with the tide. It is at those moments, coming down from that high, that she can almost hear it. The song that Orpheus once sang for her, and her alone, on a rainy day at the end of winter. It reverberates in her brain, cutting above the noise, above the grunts of the workers, the shouts and the screams and the clashing of steel on steel.

Sometimes it is faint, and she has to strain to hear it. But she holds it in her head, the only music she can hear down here. In the hard times, in the long hours, she listens to his voice in her head, and finds the strength to take another step. Sometimes, when it is dark, she fantasises that she can hear him for real, that if she just turns a corner he will be there, clothes rumpled and stained with dirt, eyes widening with joy as he sees her. And she will fall into his arms, and the world will be alright again.

She holds onto that image, as much as she can, and the echo of his song in her memory. It is all she has.

The manor of the King stands high above the rest of Hadestown. It is said that from his windows, Hades can see every part of his kingdom, and keep track of any individual, if he so chooses. It is styled after an old plantation house - whispers on the wind tell of an older design, long ago, but none can tell exactly what it might have once looked like.

He oversees everything, from the schedules of each individual worker to the goods that rumble down the conveyer belts. Of course, he doesn’t talk to the workers individually. He talks to the foremen, issues orders, shouts commands.

Recently, he hasn’t been seen. Everyone works on autopilot, long hours bleeding into each other without purpose or reason, scrambling to obey when new orders come down the wire. Stop working on the wall. Start disassembling the first foundry. Tear the neon from the roof. Foremen stand in their factories looking at messengers and getting steadily angrier, while the doors of the king’s manor remained shut.

And what of the Lady? It was always said that wherever Hades wasn’t, Persephone was. She always spent her time down in Hadestown itself, away from the house that looms on the horizon no matter where you turn. It is said that she has a thousand little bolt-holes, each rich with stashed goods that she brings down from the surface. Certainly, there are places where the workers can go to spend a few snatched hours, speakeasies frequented by the Lady herself.

She has been seen less, too. She is still there, they are sure. The swirl of a black dress is glimpsed around corners, clinking of bottles heard in the distance. The workers talk, of course, as is their nature, but all is idle gossip and speculation. Some hail her as having caused this change, the change that is cooling down the underworld. Some worry for where she might be, with Hades seen less and less. Others keep their heads down and their voices out of the discussion, and who knows what they might be thinking.

Behind closed doors, Hades and Persephone circle each other. She on the balcony, he pacing his study. She sitting outside the door, he at the window watching. Passing each other on the stairs, him going up and her coming down, that brief flicker of eyes meeting each other. Hands brush, for a brief moment. A small, quiet smile. Then eyes lower, feet continue their journey.

No words are spoken, but none would suffice. What is between them – centuries, millenia, aeons of walls being built – will not crumble in a moment. It is a great frost, only now beginning to thaw, cracks showing in mighty sheets of ice, the sun filtering through in shafts. They sit at opposite ends of the table to eat, and the silence that falls is almost companiable. Outside of the window, Hadestown chugs onwards as it ever has, without their notice. For now this room is their world, and that at the moment is all they need.

~

On the surface, Orpheus is wandering through a town. He passes so many of these places on his journey, shantytowns and worker’s settlements, where people build their ramshackle houses from what little they can find, that they all seem to blur into one. Rough wooden buildings, people outside warming their hands over a coal fire, dressed in clothes far too thin for the weather, living their anonymous lives out here in the wilderness. He sees them, these grey people with their downcast faces. Sees their despair, sees the winters they have endured, sees the endless drudgery of their days. He remembers the people he saw in Hadestown, with their uniforms and their hollow stare, how none of them looked him in the eye even as they were beating him, and driving him away.

Sometimes he stops in these places, not expecting much. Some ground on which to lay his head, foraging for whatever scraps he can. The people surround him like spectres, and yet still there is humanity in these forgotten creatures. Sometimes, they share their food with him, sometimes their warmth, and they expect nothing in return. He says little, but they do not seem to mind.

In truth, he knows why seeing them scares him, and that is because he knows that he looks like them. He is pale and weary from his months of travelling, his clothes are worn and patched and worn again, his eyes on the road. It is all he can do sometimes to fall asleep the second he stops moving – to wake to the cold glare of the sun on his face and start to move on. He doesn’t know the names of the places he passes, if they even have names, much less the people.

And yet. One night, around a fire. Orange sparks dance around the scene, under a moonless, starless sky. Faces crowd around, silhouetted in the shadows. They doze on each other’s shoulders, talk quietly to their neighbours. All have dark smudges under their eyes, hands calloused and rough. They wear long coats with the collars turned up, fingerless gloves coming apart at the seams, hats pulled low over their faces.

The poor boy clutches a tin cup, filled with gritty coffee. His mind is on the road ahead, on the aching in his feet and the gnawing in his belly, his eyes cold and distant. He doesn’t hear the question until it is repeated to him.

A man stands in front of him. He is old and stooped, with patchy grey hair and kind eyes. He points to the guitar on Orpheus’ back and asks him if he plays. The words are light, innocent. Easy to miss.

Orpheus takes the guitar and looks at it as though he is seeing it for the first time. His hands automatically lock into place; one on the fretboard, the other hovering over the strings. He can feel it, like an instinct in his hand, the chords to a melody he has known since the beginning of time. He can feel the tension coiling in his fingers, the tune aching to be freed.

Slowly and gently, he begins to play.

The conversations stop. The sleepers wake. There is a hushed silence that descends over the people who are gathered in this place. A woman gasps; a man blinks tears away. It is a wordless song, just the guitar and the night air, and the crackle of the fire. A melody of love, from long ago. An old song, that resonates in each of them.

Then the words begin to flow. He doesn’t know where they came from, never wrote them. This is from somewhere else, some primal place deep within him. For the first time, Orpheus realises, he is singing not of gods but men. He is singing _his_ song, _his_ story. He sings Eurydice, cupping her hands around the tiny glow from her candle. He sings himself, on one knee before her, with nothing but a song on his lips. He sings their love, their months spent together, the taste of wine in their mouths and easy joy in their hearts, glowing with summer sun.

Around him, in the circle, people are drawing closer, faces washed yellow in the campfire’s flickering light. They sit all around him, staring at him, the beginnings of smiles playing on their lips, wonder in their eyes. He recoils slightly from their combined gaze, ducks his head. But his hands move over the guitar all the same, in that old, familiar way.

He can’t stop the song now, not even if he wanted to. He sings despair, the night he returned to find her gone. He sings the journey, the long road down to Hadestown. He sings what he found when he got there, Eurydice looking back at him from amongst the workers, hard and blank. At the name of Hadestown, the people shudder and huddle closer, dark reminisces shadowing their faces.

So he sings to them the song he sang to the workers. The song of freedom. The song of hope. The song of things getting better, of making things better. He sings of Hades and Persephone, endlessly orbiting each other, not daring to come any closer. Of the garden where their love began, and the way he reminded them of the song they once sang.

And then his voice falters, and his hands still. Because this is where he wants to end the story, with a triumphant crescendo and him by Eurydice’s side. He can see the realisation dawning in the listeners – that here he is, but she is not in sight. But the old man nods at him, and a little strength builds in his chest; strength enough to finish the song.

Orpheus sings of the test, the deal. He sings that journey, long and dark and cold and lonely. He sings doubt, and fear, and the moment where he lost all faith. Where he lost everything.

But under his hands the song is beginning to change, into a warning – and a promise. He looks around that campfire and sees it in their faces still. That spark of hope. That idea.

He hadn’t considered it before, hadn’t thought. He had been so focused on his defeat that he hadn’t realised his triumph. Nobody had been to Hadestown before and left. Nobody but him.

She comes to Orpheus later with longing; a cautious hope that shines from every pore. She is not young, not yet old, dressed in the worn clothes of the itinerant worker. Her hair, raven-black with ashy streaks, is bound back in a plait. He recognises the determination in her face, the shine in her eyes. "Is it true?" she asks.

And when Orpheus next opens his mouth, it is to speak of a long, dark road, and what to do at the end of it.

~

Back in Hadestown, among the damned, work continues as it ever has. And yet, things are changing. Slowly, in little ways, almost imperceptible.

Half of the foundries are closed. Hadestown is _cold_ now, the workers huddle together at their stations. They make coats and jackets from cast-offs, make sure they stay close. They light their way with brands made of purloined coal, the underworld now thrown into shadows. And yet the machinery still clinks and clangs on, factories churning out goods as they always do. But in between jobs, the workers find time to rest. No more sneaking around to private speakeasies, looking behind them for fear of attracting the attention of the foreman. Now they sit quite openly in groups, talking or resting or finding games to play, and none beat them down for it.

The lights are on in Hades’ manor, and behind the curtains two silhouettes move in and out periodically. They share rooms now, more often than not. Hades sits reading in his chair in the corner, while Persephone arranges flowers in their window box. If she sees him watching her over the cover of the book she does not react; if he catches her glancing back to him every so often he shows no sign of it.

Words are passed between them, small words. Inconsequential things, holding weight only because they are spoken. Hades often finds his tongue tied around her, the familiar words he often speaks unsuited to this situation. This doesn’t fit into his story, of walls and foundries and industry. Her, sitting here with her hair tossed over her shoulder, regarding him with a cool gaze. Him, stuttering through his sentences, his voice faltering and unsure.

So he closes his mouth, runs the back of his hand over harsh lips. And under his breath he hums a tune. A tune that rumbles from his throat like the turning of the world, like an earthquake. He meant it to be a small and quiet thing, but she reacts in an instant. Her eyebrows are raised, her focused observation of him taken over by surprise, and nostalgia.

He hums louder, a bass grumbling that must be heard by all outside. He says nothing else. Doesn’t stop. Closes his eyes.

It is a while before he realises that her voice, high and clear, is harmonising with his own.

One day, somebody notices that nobody has been summoned to take the empty bottles from Lady Persephone’s door for a few days. Fearing reprisals, one worker scurries up to the manor, making their way around to the back door. But there is nothing waiting for them there, no stacks of bottles. For a moment they freeze, trying to remember the season. But up above, winter rages on. In the window, they can just about see the Lady’s thin form.

Hades watches her as she goes about her day, deep in thought. Once he ordered her not to leave the mansion, and she obeyed, and the bottles mounted up outside their door. Once he ordered her to go, and she obeyed that too. But his anger gave way to his paranoia, and he was back at her side in a moment. Inside his mind he begged her to stay; with his lips he told her to leave the workers, and re-join him. And she obeyed.

Now, though, he tells her nothing, and she does as she will. Some days she sits on their balcony, fanning herself. Others she walks the factory floors, wandering aimlessly through his streets. He watches her from her window, from his tower with a view of all of Hadestown. She is a dark patch in a world of red and grey – hard to spot, but Hades has had many lifetimes to practice.

And yet she comes back. Every night she returns to their rooms, though by morning she is gone again. She blesses him with a smile, now, when she enters the room. In return, he gives her space. Yet the more space he gives her, the closer she seems to draw to him. Like the bluebird that perches on the branch at the first dawning of spring, she returns each time.

He is working more now, occupying his days with the unanswered questions of what he is meant to do now. His work, his life’s work, everything he stands for here in the vastness below the earth, means nothing now to him. The factories and mines and mills continue as they always have, though at half-capacity. So many have been shut down with the foundries, the workers sent on to other projects.

One group he sets to digging, chipping away at the hard stone below their feet. They replace it with dirt, soft and rich, the earth smelling of potential. It takes weeks, months, but all is worth it for the moment when Hades can take his lover by the hand and lead her there. It’s a place for her to go, he explains from the threshold, a place that’s all her own. She can plant, and grow, and create if she wants; if not, she can let the land lie, and no more will be said. It is a gift, he tells her, a token.

Persephone looks at him and for a moment he thinks that he has broken some unspoken rule between them, upset the tightrope on which they are so carefully dancing. Her expression is blank, impassive. She looks down at the ground and whispers that it is winter, that nothing is meant to grow in the time she spends here.

He gives her a small, shaky smile. Snowdrops do, he says, and holly and ivy. Dogwood and narcissus, red robin and winter jasmine. Sarcococca and firethorns. And trees, pine and hemlock and red cedar. He can give her people to help her, he says, or leave her be if that is what she wills. If she doesn’t like it, he can leave the land fallow, and say no more. It is her gift, he says, to do with as she wishes.

She blinks, slowly, and turns around on her heel. Her eyes sweep over the patch of dirt, then flicker upwards, upwards to the roof of the caverns where wires still hang unused, where the skeleton of a power grid once was that would have blinded her if she looked this away before. She feels the chill on her bare arms. She sees the people – workers in uniform, sitting around the edge of the field. A small group is playing cards, quiet as mice, while more simply sit and rest their eyes, their weary limbs.

Persephone looks to Hades then. He stands there in shirtsleeves, and though to all of the mortals his stance tells nothing, she has the advantage of centuries of familiarity. She sees the way he clenches and unclenches his hands, the small rhythm of a pulse in his throat, the way his eyes seem to dart around after her, the set of his jaw. She sees him dwarfed by the vast expanse of the caverns, the darkness above them baring down on him and her both. She sees the sharp intake of his breath, the slow hiss of mist from his mouth.

And once more, she starts to sing.

For that moment, all else is silent. No wheezing and groaning of machinery, no hammering and clanging of workers, no yelling of foremen’s voices. Millions of people down tools and stand, still and quiet, listening, as Hadestown grinds to a halt around them. Throughout the streets, the refrain of a lovers’ melody is echoing.

Eurydice is bent over a table in one of the speakeasies when she hears it, and closes her eyes. The bottles that litter the floor clink as she stands, turns her face towards the dark and cavernous roof.  She hears him, her boy, her Orpheus, singing in her ears. She knows it isn’t him, that the voices she can hear belong to the gods above her. But it is his voice that cuts through the silence and sings to her. His melody, his guitar, Orpheus and none other. And, for the first time since she saw him last, she realises as she stands there, her cheeks are wet with tears.

She sings, too. She doesn’t realise she can until the notes come bursting out of her mouth. Her song is soft, quiet, meant only for her and this room. She sings the melody, her voice encircling the one only she can hear. When she opens her eyes again, she looks down into her cupped hands, and gasps.

A few days later she is back in this room, sitting alone in the corner while her work group has some time to themselves. They lounge around the edges, swapping cigarettes and stories. One offers a hand to her, but she shakes her head.

She can hear a tapping noise from beside her. She turns, and a woman in black stands at her side, her hand extended. There is softness in her eyes and a smile on her lips. She stands tall, back straight and proud. Eurydice looks up into Persephone’s face, and once again, she finds that she is crying. The goddess sweeps her up onto her feet and holds her in her arms, and for a few hours there is some light in the young girl’s life again.

After that, those that know her notice a change in Eurydice. Her step is stronger, her back straighter, her head held higher than it ever has. There is kindness in her eyes, and a song on her lips. She is often heard humming to herself as she works, and when they are done and have a few snatched moments to themselves, she even can be persuaded to sing. And nobody knows how she got it, or how it stays fresh even as the days go by. But Eurydice is often seen wearing a red flower in her hair, fresh and sweet-smelling even over the coal dust and the sweat.

But the workers toil on, as is their lot in life. Despite that day, the day of two voices singing, much is still the same for the people of Hadestown. Until a few months later, when a lady with raven-black hair bound back in a plait and worn clothes comes striding through, smelling of the fresh air. The workers part like an ocean before her, as she walks with purpose to the King’s mansion, and demands to be let in.

Nobody knows what is said between them, for this time the exchange is behind closed doors, where nobody can see. But when the woman returns, it is with a smile on her face. She looks out, her eyes scanning the crowd, until she sees a familiar face staring back at her, with a look both of recognition and fear. She walks out and takes another woman by the hands, a worker whose face is streaked with ash and dirt and longing, and leads her towards a crack in the mighty wall that none had noticed until that moment, and none would be able to find after it.

The woman from the surface steps through first. After a second, the worker follows on. Thousands of eyes watch them as they take the first few steps towards the surface. Behind them, three grey silhouettes appear out of the darkness, stalking after them like cats after a mouse.

A few days later, Specs and the Ox stand close to the wall, trying to blend into the shadows. They have been talking to the other workers – someone passed on a message saying that there was a way out of Hadestown, that they can lead them to the right place, to meet by the wall that night. Specs wasn’t sure about it, wondering aloud if the message was a trap, but the Ox just shrugged, saying that if they didn’t try, they’d never see the surface again. They mentioned their plan to Skip, but he acted like he hadn’t heard. Specs is even now scanning the darkness for the familiar lines of his face, but he is nowhere to be seen, not at all.

They hear a hiss beside them, and look up. A young girl approaches them from the shadows, a clumsily-made coat buttoned over her worker’s uniform. Her hair is cut into a neat bob around her face, and in it she wears a small red flower that seems to glow in the darkness. She places her hand on the wall, and there before them is revealed an almighty crack like a chasm, thin compared to the vastness of the wall but large enough to walk through.

The girl with the red flower smiles back at Specs, though there is a hint of sorrow in her eyes. She knows that she cannot join them, no matter how much she wants to. There are rules, and she has had her chance. “This is the way,” she says. “You just have to go.”

Specs looks ahead of her. The crack in the wall reveals a deep fissure, a cavern no natural light has ever touched, stalagmites and stalactites hanging like teeth in the gloom. The path is unclear, seeming to dip randomly in places, potholes and worse “Are you sure we’ll make it?”

“No.” Eurydice cups the girl’s face in one hand, strokes her cheek. She seems to be assessing her, though Specs sees a flicker of recognition on her face. A memory, perhaps, of a girl not so different from her. “But you deserve the chance to try.”

“Well then.” They turn to see Skip standing there, looking at the trio with a mixture of blind terror and furtive hope. “Let’s fly,” he says, and though his face is full of fear, he takes that first step forwards.

As they slip through the crack, a curtain twitches in the manor of the king. Hades looks down, his features betraying no emotion, though his pale eyes glitter in the neon glow. A hand appears at his shoulder; he turns away from the window, back to the room behind him, back to the arms of his lady.

~

Another day, another road. Orpheus still has little to his name. All he can carry in the bag at his waist, firewood and food and matches, and the guitar which he now holds in his hands, cradles like a lover. He still follows the railroad tracks, always heading away from something. Mud and dust encrusts his boots. As he walks, he plays, a wordless tune high and sweet.

(Somewhere, a lady in green kisses her husband on the cheek before boarding a train, and he waves to her as she goes.)

And if Orpheus sees the train carriage that speeds past him, or notices the lady in green staring out of the window, he shows no sign of recognition, just keeps on walking. His hands pluck out a chord, his feet walk to the rhythm. He holds his head high. Green shoots poke through the blighted ground at his feet. The sun is high in a cloudless sky. He stops, takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. Ahead of him is another place – the end of the railway, one more anonymous collection of ramshackle buildings where workers sleep. He plays a chord, frowns, tunes the guitar slightly. Already he can see people scurrying over the line like ants.

(Somewhere, a man in grey helps the lady down from her railroad car, bowing his head as she swings her suitcase down.)

He draws close to the town, the music announcing him better than any words could. These people have heard whispers of him, of the boy who walks the railroad tracks with a song. But their expressions are different, here, somehow. Not the mix of awe and wonder he has come to expect. Here the people look like they know him, like they are welcoming an old friend back into their fold.

(Somewhere, the lady sits in circle of buildings, passing out bottles, and humming a melody under her breath as she does; a quiet tune, meant only for herself.)

Orpheus has not stopped playing, and now he adds his voice – still wordless, his voice sliding up and down the scale like melted butter. There is another song now, a small, quiet melody from ahead of him. He adjusts his grip on the guitar, plays a different chord, harmonising with the new voice. Singing as he walks. Always, he is singing.

He has reached the centre of the buildings, where the people gather. They lounge around, holding bottles and cups, lying and sitting in the dirt with mud-stained clothes and tired bones, their voices joining in the song of the woman who stands in the centre. She turns, her green dress swishing around her feet, and looks at him. Her eyes glitter, the song she is humming rising in volume.  A red flower is pinned to her chest. Orpheus sees her, and for the first time in a while, genuine joy spreads across his face.

And Persephone holds her hands out to him, beaming like the brightest summer day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a similar thing to this for Spring Awakening about a year ago - basically, the idea is to, without overwriting the ending or moral of the musical, get it to a happier place. Not necessarily a place where everything went right, but to pick up where the story left off, and see where I can go with it. I'll be honest, I'm not actually sure if I achieved that, but hopefully the end result was enjoyable to read! At the end of the day, all of these characters needed a hug, and a good cry at least.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to my good friend Eleanor, without whom it would not exist. Eleanor, I love rambling about this world and these characters with you at whatever ungodly hours of the morning, and picking apart this musical as much as humanly possible. Thanks for everything!
> 
> Please leave a comment, whatever you thought of the fic - I love getting feedback whether it be good or bad.


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